The world s gone completely mad

The world has lost its mind, the headlines scream it through the day,
But Dostoevsky's ghosts are real—they've come and mean to stay.
Raskolnikov bought an apartment, who could e'er believe?
A mortgage from the crone he vowed to send beneath the grave.

A prestigious downtown postcode, modern man's ecstatic pride,
He signed his life to thirty years of unrelenting night.
The market crashed, rates rocketed to stratospheric heights,
The pawnbroker laughed and sneered: "Show proof, or lose your rights!"

She dragged him into court, cried "Lies!" with tears before the throne,
The judge, the cops—they all agreed, her side they made their own.
He lost the flat, the cash, his vaunted, foolish, shattered pride—
Now drowning deep in vodka's depths, with debts he can't abide.

In rented gloom's oppressive hush, a bitter plan takes root,
To chase away the endless dark, absolve his grim pursuit.

"Am I a worthless insect? Dare I claim the sacred right?"
He clicks "Add to Cart"—an axe gleams sharp and cold and bright!
Another Petersburg night, a knock echoes at the door,
One swing of polished steel... and debts disturb no more!

She never saw the digital doom that sealed her final breath,
Victim of the web she wove, ensnared in modern death.
And Raskolnikov? No prison bars confine his restless soul—
He serves on foreign battlefields, in rivers red with toll.

"Am I a worthless insect? Dare I claim the sacred right?"
He clicks "Add to Cart"—that axe gleams sharp and cold and bright!
Another Petersburg night, a knock echoes at the door,
One swing of polished steel... and debts disturb no more!